Enforcer (37 page)

Gauthier laughed, appreciating the joke, but Kline’s lips never moved from their straight line position. The federal agent didn’t look like he was trying to see the guilt inside of Connor, he just looked like he wasn’t one that found humor in much, if anything.

“No, sir, unless the local police have something going on,” Gauthier chuckled. “We might get caught up in that operation ourselves.” He gave Connor a wink.

“Mr. Dunsmore,” Kline started.

“You can just call me Connor. Mr. Dunsmore works, but I’m only twenty-six, so, you know, Connor is probably less awkward.” Connor’s brain was going into rebellion, trying to clamp down on the
funny
part.

“Connor, then,” Agent Kline said, just the hint of a smile breaking his serious expression. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. This will only take a moment.”

Connor looked at both of them. He’d never spent any time with cops other than a few here and there who were fans that would talk to him about their jobs for once, instead of asking him about hockey. He shrugged, wanting to ask if he was in trouble, not wanting to ask it just in case he was and asking such a thing would give them instant suspicion.

“It was tough watching you guys lose that game against Tacoma in the playoffs,” Agent Gauthier said to him. “Good opening night though, and good fight. You worked that guy Crumb over real good.”

Connor wondered if Gauthier was a real fan, or was being a good investigator by doing his homework.

“It sucked,” Connor agreed about exiting the playoffs. “I didn’t really want to fight the guy the on opening night. You know how it is though, they were losing, and he thought he could at least win a fight.”

Gauthier laughed again, and even Kline lightened up slightly.

“Look, Connor, you aren’t in trouble,” Gauthier told him. “We want to ask you some questions though. They might sound weird, but keep in mind we aren’t implicating you, we just want to know if you’ve seen anything strange in your time here.”

“Like, in the last hour since I sat down?” Connor asked, getting a chuckle from Gauthier again, but a frown from Kline.

“No, since you came to Boise,” Kline said.

“I’ve seen lots of weird shit,” Connor smiled. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“What Agent Kline means,” Agent Gauthier said, “is have you seen anything unusual since you began playing for the Bombers?”

“Anything you might have noticed that seemed odd during team meetings, road trips, strange rumors that might have floated around, anything like that,” Kline added.

“Is there something going on with the team?” Connor asked, pretending to be interested in knowing any good dirt to gossip about.

“Connor,” Gauthier said, not answering his question, “have you spent much time around Mr. Ojacarcu?”

“The owner?” Connor asked. Both agents nodded. “Not really. He offered me a spot on the team, told me he’d pay me extra over what the league allowed. Wanted to cash in on my name I suppose. So I said sure, why not? I met with him a few times while we were drawing up the contract. He told me that I was to be the face of the team, the one that drew the fans, and when I wasn’t playing hockey, I would work for his company, mostly doing odd jobs to make up the rest of what he’d promised.”

“Cash in on your name?” Agent Kline asked.

“Connor here,” Gauthier said, “was a big shot back in Canada. He was going to be the next Gretzky. Jesus on skates, according to some. Had a career-ending injury but somehow made it through rehab and kept playing. You should pay attention to hockey sometime, Kline.”

“Or just go on the internet,” Connor offered. “Type my name in Google, but don’t do it if you’ve just eaten.”

Kline’s confused look made the IDES agent and the hockey player laugh.

“What kind of ‘odd jobs’ did he have you doing?” Kline asked, ignoring their laughter.

“Oh, easy stuff. The league says we can only be paid two-fifty a week, but I was offered a thousand a week to come here. So what they do is pay me the maximum on the league payroll, then put me on one of the company books that isn’t tied to the organization. His construction company is who I work for officially when not on the ice, and it pays me the remaining seven-fifty a week.”

Kline pulled out a notepad and began to write down the highlights of Connor’s words.

“Agent Kline,” Connor said, making the man look up from his notepad, “none of this is illegal in any way. It’s standard practice for teams to entice the players they want to keep around. See, in the minor leagues, players, the younger ones anyway, they tend to move around a lot. They’ll get traded, get sent up a level or down a level, or let go and they have to go find another team to play for.

“Other guys, like me for instance, a young guy, but one with no chance of ever making it anywhere near the NHL level again, or popular veterans finishing up their careers but can’t give up the game, we tend to stick around a city and a team for a while. We aren’t going to stay in a city that only pays the league minimum for more than a season before going back home and hanging up the skates, unless a player is really desperate to keep playing. But if we can draw fans, win games, be a good fit on the team we play for, we get the perks of extra money. Think of it as how college recruiters sometimes give money or jobs to the athlete’s parents to get him to play at their school. Except it isn’t illegal in professional hockey.”

“Sounds shady if you don’t know how it works,” Gauthier offered, “but he’s right, it’s standard practice to keep guys like Connor playing for the Bombers, or Delano for the Steelheads.”

Kline looked like he had no idea what a Steelhead was, let alone that there might be two minor league hockey teams in the city. He put his pen down. “So what kind of jobs?”

“Mostly nothing,” Connor admitted. “I’d deliver a box of supplies from one job site to another maybe once per week. Or I’d go to the donut shop and grab four dozen donuts and bring them back for everyone. Once in a while I’d simply deliver a piece of paper from the office to one of the foremen, or even to a manager of another of Mr. Ojacarcu’s businesses.”

“And you got paid another seven-fifty a week for this?” Kline asked.

Connor nodded his head, causing Gauthier to smile and shake his. “See? That’s how you make money.”

“It did require me to almost die, remember,” Connor said.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. But you got it right when it comes to at least earning a great wage for still doing what you dreamed about as a kid,” Gauthier said.

Kline looked annoyed that Connor and the IDES agent were more interested in reliving the kid’s glorious past. Connor was happy to keep talking to them as long as it was about hockey. He was suspicious of Gauthier. The man was friendly, and knew his hockey, but he was IDES. He wouldn’t be sitting across from Connor unless he had a reason beyond talking about hockey or humoring Agent Kline and the DEA.

“What kind of notes?” Kline persisted.

“Mostly invoices or instructions,” Connor answered.

“What kind of instructions?”

“Stuff like ‘change out the concrete from this type to that type because an inspector said so’ or ‘make sure to have all of the fleet delivery vans serviced for oil and tires.’ Nothing like ‘deliver the bomb to the football stadium on a Saturday during a Broncos game.’”

“You really can’t joke about that anymore,” Kline said, his annoyance beginning to show.

“I’m sorry Agent…” Connor pretended to forget his name.

“Kline,” the man said.

“I’m sorry Agent Kline, but I find it kind of funny that you think the guy who owns the team I play for is an international terrorist. You looked really disappointed when I said the instructions were for things like concrete and oil changes, and it was funny.”

“He’s right,” Gauthier said, his grin annoying Kline even more. “You did look like you just lost the Super Bowl when he didn’t mention nukes or sex slaves.”

Connor’s smile only faltered for a moment, but he was sure neither saw it. They were too busy looking at each other, one grinning, one getting pissed.

“Have you noticed anything unusual going on during team road trips?” Gauthier asked a few moments later.

“Besides drunken debauchery?” Connor asked.

“Yeah, I bet you guys get a lot of tail, don’t you?” Gauthier sighed.

“Nah, we usually get too drunk to chase it, especially if we lose. But other than a bus full of twenty-somethings still hanging on to their quickly receding hockey careers, there’s nothing too strange that I’ve seen that would warrant a couple of guys in nice suits poking around. But I beat people up for a living, and once in a while I get a goal as a bonus. I doubt anyone would tap me to move explosives or WMD’s around for them, or deliver secret messages detailing when the next terrorist meeting was happening.”

“Mr. Dunsmore,” Agent Kline said tightly, “you do realize we are with drug enforcement, not anti-terrorism, don’t you?”

Connor shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but you do realize I play professional hockey and punch people in the face, not smuggle dope and sell drugs, don’t you?”

Agent Gauthier guffawed loudly, making the cafe’s other customers look over at them. He slapped his partner on the shoulder and got up from his seat. “I think he just told you to go fuck yourself.”

“Nah,” Connor said, a smile on his face. “I’m just saying it’s a bit absurd. I’m a Canadian citizen, remember? I like it down here where it’s warm. I’m going to avoid anything that gets me sent back to the frozen wastes.”

Agent Kline pulled out a business card wallet and removed a card, setting it on the table in front of Connor. Gauthier did the same, except he wrote another number on the back of the card before handing it to Connor.

“That number is if you ever find yourself in trouble,” the IDES agent told him. “I’m a season ticket holder, and while I can’t keep you from going to prison in Alaska if you get caught with a hundred kilos of smack in your gas tank, I can vouch for you if you ever need it.”

Connor thanked both of them, not breathing until they were gone from the coffee shop and out of sight. His legs began to shake, his right leg throbbing around the scar tissue, his knotted stomach backing up into his throat. He sat for another twenty minutes, replaying the conversation in his head, looking for any place he might have slipped up. He knew he should have been less glib, more serious, but he had been afraid of being too wooden, too obviously guilty of something.

Kline was a dour asshole, he thought, but Gauthier… the guy was either genuine, or he was far more dangerous than the DEA agent. Connor figured it was a mix of both, being a genuine fan who loved watching hockey, and an even better drug agent who had a way of making everyone, especially suspects, feel almost
too
at ease. He pulled out his phone to text Petre, to ask if the Romanian could come and meet him, maybe even ride with him when he took Jera to her appointment.

He paused, and decided that if the police were showing up to a random coffee shop to ask him
innocent
questions, they might have already tapped, or bugged, or whatever they did with mobile phones these days. He was about to go look for a pay phone, something he hadn’t seen in forever, or to ask the coffee shop girls if he could borrow theirs, when he decided that too would be a bad idea. If Petre got a call from his mobile, the store phone, or a pay phone anywhere near where the agents had spoken to him, and Petre’s phone was compromised, it would be a giant red flag.

For the first time, Connor felt vindicated for watching a ton of the true crime and forensic shows. He still held the ideal that he didn’t want to be the guy who fucked up, got everyone in trouble. Mostly he was looking out for his own ass, but he had to keep in mind that even if he wasn’t the one who caused everyone else to topple like dominoes, he’d be one of the first to be hunted down.

No one was going to send him away like Dana had been sent away. The only protection he could count on was doing absolutely nothing that would get him killed. Petre had told him Dracul would start liquidating people if things were looking bad, which meant someone other than Connor could be asked the same questions he’d just endured and end up being the asshole. Either way, it wouldn’t be a happy ending for anyone.

CHAPTER 31

Connor didn’t see Petre until two days later when they met in the office to begin their collection route. He felt like everyone in the building knew he’d talked to the agents. When someone like Vadim or Dracul looked at him, he felt like they knew he had given up all of their secrets. He was paranoid, but hoped Petre would give him some advice, would calm him down.

“I had a couple of visitors two nights ago,” Connor said as they cruised down the freeway.

“What kind of visitors? You have sexed two girls at once?” Petre’s lewd grin made Connor laugh.

“No, two drug agents,” he said. Petre frowned at him. “One was DEA, the other was the state DEA.”

“Fuck. Shit.”

“Yeah. It kind of freaked me out.”

“What did they ask?”

“Don’t you mean ‘what did I tell them?’”

“You are my friend, Connor—”

“Right, right. Blah blah, you believe me, et cetera and all that. They asked if I’d ever seen anything strange going on with the boss. I made one of them mad, but he was a douche. The guy had no sense of humor.”